Innocence Can Never Last
by Pouncer
Summary: No matter John's efforts, he would always be found wanting. Gen. Spoilers through 2x02 The Intruder. Written May 2005July 2006.


**Innocence Can Never Last**

By Pouncer

1. _Welcome to a new kind of tension._

He would fly tomorrow. As the storm raged around the lifeboat of the Atlantis control room, John Sheppard repeated that one thought over and over again. He would fly tomorrow, and be able to forget the feel of a man's neck snapping in his hands. The surprised mask as the bullets hit, before blank death set in. Elizabeth's eyes locked on his, her nod giving him permission to shoot the man holding her as a shield, the man who had threatened and lied and taunted Sheppard while in possession of his city.

John never told the others, never told Rodney, rummaging under a control panel and emerging with a crow of victory. "I knew Grodin kept a stash of power bars in here!" John waved Rodney off when he tried to share. His stomach was still too upset for food, the adrenaline rush that had fueled his reclamation of the city waning to jitteriness. Instead, John sat down on the stairs that led to the gate, gun in hand just in case.

Teyla had the Genii girl under control. John could rest, and imagine the jumper responsive under his touch. Flight instead of death.

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When Rodney dialed their false refuge on Manara, Sheppard told Sergeant Bates to come back with the first wave. Stackhouse could secure the rest of the Atlantis staff's retreat. Bates eyes widened as he took in John's bedraggled uniform by the reflected gleam of the event horizon. Whatever Bates saw in John's face demanded silence, because the usual challenge wasn't present when he came over.

John ushered Bates to a private nook, out of the stream of returning scientists and Marines and Athosians. "Sergeant. The Genii came through and attempted to take Atlantis. They didn't succeed." Bates eyes widened and he looked like he wanted to ask for details, but John had more to tell him. "Lewis and Morgan are dead. I need you to take a detail and clean up the Genii bodies before I can let anybody wander around." _Give the orders, John_. No room for doubt. Bates nodded and oh thank God, didn't argue.

"Yes, sir."

John ran down the list of locations, all the places he had created ambushes and traps and killing fields. He told Bates to remove the bodies to their makeshift morgue, Lewis and Morgan first. Dr. Beckett could take care of them next.

"Major Sheppard?" Weir's voice held that summoning tone. John watched Bates gesture to some of his people, and schooled his mind to calmness. He had to act like nothing was wrong.

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John couldn't sleep that night. He knew Rodney was tranked up per some scheme of Elizabeth's and the doctor. John would have to remember to discuss torture with Rodney, tell him that everyone broke in the end. Sometimes, you could delay it, if you knew tricks to block out pain and consequences, but the training only went so far. An astrophysicist shouldn't have to know any of that, not in any sane world.

John had known Atlantis was crazy the moment she lit up at the touch of his boots. Everywhere he went, doors opened, lights brightened, and he felt a tickle in the back of his mind. He should remember something, he should _know_ but he could never integrate those tantalizing hints into something solid.

It was like trying to recognize a smell from the merest whiff, molecules too dispersed to allow for identification. John knew in his dreams, knew the city's secrets, but they flowed away like the tide, stained red with blood. The smell of salt and copper overpowered him. Elizabeth was there, a gaping smile cut underneath her chin. Rodney floated with the rhythm of the surf, right arm abbreviated where his hand had been hacked off. His left hand held the other in a parody of greeting.

Kolya stood on the shore, laughing as the encroaching waves swamped John's efforts to save his friends. His people. His responsibility to protect them, and he had failed. Why not let the tide suck him under, give in to the sea's embrace? He rolled over, face down to the murky ocean floor and saw a Wraith's face leering up, nearly buried in the muck.

His lungs gasped for air, on the brink of asphyxiation. John pushed himself straight up from his pillow, breathing in precious oxygen while his biceps tensed and his eyes darted around trying to find the danger. The room's lights glowed softly at first, then sharpened in response to his panic. Nobody was there. He was alone.

Sheppard rolled over and pulled his knees up to rest his head. There would be no more sleep tonight.

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The SGC felt alien, more remote and strange than Atlantis ever had, even in those first exploratory moments. John wandered the corridors after marathon debriefings had sucked the events of the last year from his brain. He thought the Wraith would have had more finesse gathering information, but his face in the mirror hadn't aged. He relived every decision, every misstep, for the pleasure of high command, who never understood the exigencies encountered in the field. At least Everett wasn't there to detail John's insubordination; the colonel was aboard the _Daedelus_ for the almost three-week trip home.

John looked at the uniformed officers across the conference table more than he looked at Weir or McKay or Beckett. His judges' faces attempted to remain blank, but John thought he could see disdain in their eyes. No matter his efforts, he would always be found wanting.

2. _The land of make believe that don't believe in me._

Teyla wanted to survey the mainland, the day after the storm abated. She felt her people should return as soon as possible to stave off any trouble in the city. As if the treachery of the Manarian's in getting the Genii invasion force through the Atlantis shield hadn't been disturbance enough.

John wanted to shove a naquadah generator on the verge of overload through the stargate to Manara and show them the consequences of betraying Atlantis. Not that he could; Weir would never allow that type of revenge. John often wondered what Colonel Sumner would have done, if he'd survived that initial contact with the Wraith. John suspected (fed by things Bates had let slip) that Sumner would have grabbed command and slashed and burned his way through the Pegasus galaxy to find a ZPM and get home. Too bad Elizabeth saw John as her subordinate. Too bad he let her. Hack and slash and boom sounded very gratifying right now.

Instead John piloted a puddlejumper to the mainland, so that Weir and Ford and Teyla could scout the Athosian settlement and see if it could be reoccupied. Weir was eager to get away from memories of Kolya's violence, even for an hour or two. The jumper flew quiet and true, just like always, nothing to distract John from his thoughts.

It would be better if there were air to surface missiles fired from underneath his Apache, blades whirring overhead in an ear-busting rhythm. The puddlejumpers didn't have enough armament to suit John, but they compensated for it in other ways. He let himself sink into her flight, Ford's voice an ignorable drone. Teyla and Weir were silent behind him

John could give himself over to the air currents and make this trip more complicated than it had to be. It wasn't as good as cutting through an Afghan ravine, not knowing if the Taliban would fire homemade rockets at him, rising and falling and swerving with Mitch's voice swearing into his headset, telling John he was a crazy motherfucker and would get them all killed faster than the enemy.

But it would have to do.

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General O'Neill located John in the SGC mess hall, sitting against a back wall to observe all comers. McKay was holed up with Colonel Carter, rhapsodizing over Ancient technology. Weir had bolted for her boyfriend the moment she was released. John's experience with returning home after lengthy deployments led him to believe she wouldn't be happy with what she found, but she'd have to experience it for herself just like he had, every damned time. Beckett was probably occupying himself the best – John thought he had seen the doctor through the door window to one of the guest rooms, stretched out and snoring.

"Aren't you glad I convinced you to go?" O'Neill asked after dropping into a chair opposite John.

"Sir, yes sir," John drawled.

O'Neill snorted and then gestured at John's minimalist dinner, which he hadn't been able to force himself to begin yet. "You faced too much out there to be tortured with the SGC's fine cuisine. Come on, let me introduce you to my favorite watering hole." O'Neill rose, started toward the entrance, then stopped and looked back. "Well? Are you coming?"

John trailed after the general, who first took him to the quartermaster for civilian clothes. They were non-descript and anonymous, stiff with sizing. Being deprived of his Atlantis uniform felt like protective armor had been stripped away, a turtle out of his shell.

There was a car and driver waiting at the top of the mountain. "One of the perks of the new job," O'Neill remarked.

"Congratulations on your promotion, sir," John said.

"Oh yeah, it's a barrel of fun in DC."

John ventured a few of his Pentagon war stories to kill time on the drive. The restaurant the car pulled up to was housed in a low building with a statue of a long-horn steer out front. Walking through the bar to get to the hostess station made John tense. Too much noise, too many people, too close to him.

The booth in the far corner was a sheltered refuge, heavy damask tablecloth and leather upholstered seating absorbing the hum of diners' voices. The menu presented a dizzying array of choices. O'Neill ordered two beers, and John closed his eyes to relish the first familiar taste of hops and yeast. The Athosian equivalent had never overcome John's tendency to wince at its sour tinge.

He couldn't remember how often he'd listened to McKay's nostalgic odes to Food He Had Loved. John would give a lot to have Rodney's bulk beside him, comforting and predictable presence to calm his nerves. John had gone through this before, every time he returned from combat in the field, but his squadron had always been there, surrounding him and toasting fallen comrades.

O'Neill watched John with a bright gaze, alert to the changing nuances of John's mood. "It does get easier. I promise." John nodded and studied the menu more closely. He had helmed Atlantis' defense on multiple occasions, he could handle the dilemma of choosing between a porterhouse and filet mignon. And thick cut French fries, a wedge of lettuce drenched in bleu cheese, a crown of steamed broccoli. The first bite of his filet burst over John's tongue, smooth and bloody and delicious. "Oh my God," he moaned.

"I'm guessing your most recent duty post didn't have beef?" O'Neill asked.

"No, we had to scrounge a lot." Pause to phrase it innocuously enough to slide past any listening ears. "The supply lines were broken. We got pretty creative." John took care to eat slowly, to savor every glorious morsel.

"When we got your message," O'Neill said as John crunched down on a French fry that balanced crisp surface perfectly with mealy center, "I was impressed at how well you managed under very difficult circumstances. Don't let the straight arrow types get you down. I'll make sure you come out all right in the end."

John had his doubts about that. Even a two-star general in his corner couldn't overcome the fallout from John's tendency to kill and incapacitate his commanding officers.

3. _Born and raised by hypocrites._

John would always get them killed. Gall's aged face told him that, before John went off hunting the Wraith. Another scientist who shouldn't have had to face torture, giving up information. Stupid crashed ship, stupid John for giving into the eagerness in Rodney's eyes once they noticed the SOS call. Stupid John for being eager to go himself. Always wanting to play instead of being serious, the way a man should be. _Thank you, father, for drumming that into my head_, John thought as he jogged back through sand toward the jumper. They had gone to investigate a dead satellite and found a sleeping enemy instead. John seemed cursed to wake the Wraith, cursed to doom his comrades by his actions.

And the Wraith wouldn't die, not as John shot and tricked and tried every tactic he knew with blood seeping out from underneath the hasty bandage on his arm. Not grenades, not knives, nothing but a moment's distraction as Rodney came over the dune as an unstudied cavalry, all wide-eyed and clueless. The true cavalry was Ford, flying close enough to loose the Ancients' weapons on John's enemy. John stared at the flesh and gore of a Wraith who'd lain in wait for ten thousand years and still almost killed him, had killed people under his protection, and thought, cold and clear, _we're going to lose_.

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The house was nothing out of the ordinary. White siding and grey shutters, with boxwood lining either side of the door. The lawn was trimmed and edged precisely, and John wondered if the blades of grass feared their owner's wrath. You could never put a foot wrong without consequences.

He sat in his rental car – a cherry red Mustang, since he hadn't spent any of his hazard pay on Atlantis – for long moments, watching for movement through the curtains or a sign that the SUV in the driveway was about to be taken out for a spin. Finally, he could delay no longer. The door was painted burgundy and John reached out and tapped the knocker firmly. No sense being tentative about it, after all. Either he would answer the door or he'd ignore it.

John heard the lock turn and closed his eyes for an instant, taking a deep breath. He opened them in time with the door, and met the startled gaze of the man inside.

"Hi, Dad."

4. _Tales from another broken home._

John spoke to the camera, tried to ignore Ford, as he told Sumner's family how much he wished the colonel were there. And John did, hadn't wanted to be the one in charge of their hopeless defense, hadn't wanted to have everyone looking at him with desperate eyes. He went afterwards to see how the refugees were settling in, and saw a man weeping because he hadn't said goodbye to his wife before he came to trade at the village closest the stargate. She'd been left behind, hours away, and the man knew the Wraith had her. Teyla's friend Orin told John that the man had arrived just before sundown and hadn't been informed of their warning. Sudden death flew in the skies above far too soon.

John patrolled the corridors, checking with his Marines (and how strange was that? An Air Force officer in command of Marines) to see how they were dealing with the approaching threat. And then he went to Ford and got the camera and tripod and told Ford to take a hike. John could barely find words to say anything, but he knew he had to. If the chaplain walked up to his father's door after almost a decade of no contact to inform General Sheppard that his sole remaining son had died …

John couldn't do it. His father had to know _something_ first.

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General Sheppard hadn't changed; he was still trim and tall and stood perfectly straight. He led John through the foyer to the back of the house, to the family room that overlooked the redwood deck John and his father and his older brother had built the summer John turned sixteen.

They'd moved to Germany before spring rolled around again, but the real estate market had been awful and his parents had decided to rent the house out instead of selling it. Mark had been in his second year at the Air Force Academy by then, so he hadn't cared one way or the other. John had left Mandy Lifkin in tears when he told her he wouldn't be there to take her to prom. He'd heard later that she latched onto the star center of the basketball team and got pregnant two months after graduation.

And when his father got his first star, he'd served at the Pentagon so it was just as well, really. A house in the Virginia suburbs was useful, and close to post-retirement defense contractors after another go round overseas.

John hadn't been back here since he left Germany for college in California, determined to ignore his father's expectations. There was no reason to visit: Mark was buried in Colorado, and his mother's funeral had been held while John was waiting for fighting to start in Kuwait. The Army had offered to fly him back, but John couldn't stomach the thought of seeing his father's face just then.

It had taken over a decade and his own approaching doom to reach that point.

"I got your message," his father said. "You sounded like you weren't coming back."

John sat on the sofa – new since his mother's time – and looked at the framed pictures on the fireplace mantel. "I didn't think I was." There they were, the happy family on the new deck, John's hair in punk spikes and died blue with Manic Panic while Mark looked the prototypical Air Force cadet, a miniature of their father and his pride and joy. Dad's arm curved around their mother's waist. Her eyes were vague as always, her smile composed and carefully not noticing the defiant set of John's shoulders. It wasn't long before the family disintegrated into bitter acrimony.

"I was shocked when George Hammond summoned me to his office and told me what you'd been doing. I never thought …" General Sheppard trailed off, as if the concept of John traveling to another galaxy was less impossible than his survival.

John tried to play casual. "Yeah, it was different." And then John realized: "Hammond briefed you on where I was?"

"Oh yes. We served together in Vietnam, you know."

John closed his eyes and breathed in. "Of course you did." His father had served with seemingly everybody senior to John. _I really should have joined the French Foreign Legion,_ he thought to himself. _Then it wouldn't have been nepotism on the half-shell for "Duke" Sheppard's little boy_.

The pictures of B-52's, mats signed with ball point scrawls from his father's hail and farewells around the world, must be at the office. John wondered if his father was still pulling down big bucks as a consultant. Probably. His connections had always been invaluable.

"I know you can't talk about most of it, John." His father's voice was strained. "But I want to let you know I'm proud of you."

John felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He looked up from his study of his hands as his father walked closer and reached out for his shoulder.

"Very proud of you, for getting through that ordeal."

John made a mental note: All it took to hear those words was nearly dying over and over again, taking a command he hadn't wanted, watching his men fall one by one, resources declining, circumstances more and more desperate. If life in Pegasus continued the trend, he might even get a Christmas present from his dad.

5. _A flag wrapped around a score of men._

Somehow, they didn't lose.

Doom gathered, grew bleaker, and John reached a moment where his future was a clear path in front of him, foreshortened. Pilot a jumper on a kamikaze mission to grant Atlantis the time, the precious scarce hours, for the _Daedelus_ to arrive and rescue them. He didn't want to die, but he wanted Elizabeth and Rodney and Ford and Teyla to live even more. John couldn't think about it, couldn't explain to Rodney, could barely muster spare words to convince Elizabeth of the necessity. His decision, once reached, couldn't be revisited or thought about or he'd have tried to flee for the edge of the system. Desertion wasn't an option, was never an option.

John's certainty was rewarded with last minute salvation. They managed to fool the Wraith that the city had been destroyed. They lost forty souls outright. John wasn't willing to lose Ford too, no matter Dr. Beckett's reservations about the effects of Wraith enzyme dependency. The happy-go-lucky kid who'd brought John a turkey sandwich to bribe his way onto a jumper joy ride had disappeared. John didn't know who this new Ford was, with his one eye turned to midnight and his cool detachment.

John tried to stalk Ford through the halls of Atlantis, but Ford was always one step ahead of him, right up until the moment his stolen jumper disappeared into the event horizon. Elizabeth tried to comfort John, as if this wasn't his fault. But it was, because if he'd been better, he'd have caught Ford, wouldn't he? If he'd been better, the Wraith wouldn't have woken and none of this would have happened.

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After talking to Ford's cousin, John drove to the nearest Army base. His military identification gained him entry through the front gates and a friendly smile got him directions to the flight line from the female corporal on duty.

The Apaches looked ungainly on the ground, propeller blades swept to the side for storage. John stayed on the perimeter, far enough away to avoid attention, he thought. His button down shirt and dress slacks felt wrong. He should be wearing an olive jumpsuit, holding a clipboard, reporting to the ready room for a mission briefing. John hungered to fly one of the metal insects resting on the tarmac. He wanted to lift up into the air, balance a counter-intuitive design that meant a helicopter would rather crash than fly – he'd always loved the challenge of it, the need to switch between multiple controls and displays. Skim over the earth, hide behind trees to scope out enemy positions, maneuver his way into strafing runs and relish the impact of the machine guns on trucks tethered to the ground.

A humvee pulled up behind him. John sighed, knowing he would be questioned ever so politely, and encouraged to move along.

"Excuse me, sir, can I help you find – John?" the approaching voice sounded familiar enough that John turned from the tempting line of Apaches.

"My God. Craig. What the hell are you doing here? Weren't you in Japan somewhere?"

"You know the way they move you around." Craig's sandy hair was buzzed down to a thin scrim; the Air Force had it all over the Army where hair styles were concerned. That was one liberty the transfer between services had gotten John, even if it had been due to his father's influence. Send the Sheppard kid to the Air Force, to Antarctica, because it'd reflect badly on his dad if he was dishonorably discharged after _the incident_.

"What about you? Where did you go after Afghanistan?" Craig asked, only to be met with an uncomfortable silence while John looked at the helicopters he would never fly again and Craig stared at the tarmac.

"I went to Antarctica, after." John wondered what showed on his face, to make Craig avoid eye contact. His failure had been catastrophic enough that the entire rotor community must have heard about the fallout, if not the resolution. "What's new with these babies?" A jerk of the chin, and Craig was happy to spout off technical details.

They went to a local bar afterwards and John got very, very drunk reliving memories of their flight training. Every third name John mentioned from their class was no longer among the living: training mishaps, enemy fire, stupidity. Too many people John knew had died. Far, far too many.

Now he had to make sure that he didn't add to their numbers with his orders on Atlantis. If he was allowed to return to Atlantis at all.

6. _Desperation murmur of a heart beat._

The chromosphere of a sun filled the F-302's viewscreen and John's breath caught in his throat while the sound of Rodney's fidgeting blurred to nothingness behind him. John was dancing with a star located at the edge of the Pegasus Galaxy. He'd just destroyed a ship controlled by a Wraith virus, after a dogfight he couldn't have imagined in Afghanistan. Fly one general, sit down in one lousy chair, and look where he'd ended up.

It wasn't a sane world, but he was never bored. There was threat after threat, discovery and delight, struggle and challenges without end. This trip back to Atlantis promised a new start, one where John wouldn't be cursed to fail. He'd overcome this latest danger, saved the _Daedelus_ from annihilation, and he'd keep on an upward path, surrounded by his remaining team members.

He'd find Ford, and bring him home.

Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, commander of Atlantis military forces. Defender of scientists, a lost city, the Earth. He could do this. He could.

- end -

Notes: Title adapted from and section titles directly from Green Day's album _American Idiot_. Began in May 2005, added to in October 2005, restructured July 2006. This was originally intended as a companion piece to Crossing the Styx, but it veered into different directions. My thanks to those who encouraged me to keep going, and to Seperis, Plum, and Walter for their beta efforts.

Disclaimer: _Stargate Atlantis_ is not my creation. This story is for love, not profit.

_Does John really walk a lonely road, the only one that he has ever known? Tell me what you think – all types of feedback welcome._


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